


Musketeer Garrison, Paris, 26-Oct 1637

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One At War [30]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BAMF Constance, Bread, Bullying, Cadets, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon Typical Misogyny, Constance is a BAMF, Dialect, Duelling, Franco-Spanish War, Gen, Gender Non-Conforming Character, Period Typical Misogyny, Secrets, Sparring, Swearing, Thirty Years War, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24803383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: A series of exchanges, mostly between Constance and various Garrison men in her life. Some apparent, some imaginary; some wholesome, all necessary.*Another installment in the long series of pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War.
Relationships: Brujon & Clairmont, Constance & Aramis, Constance & Athos, Constance & Brujon, Constance & Original Male Character(s), Constance & Porthos, Constance & Serge, Constance & d'Artagnan
Series: All For One At War [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1137809
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	Musketeer Garrison, Paris, 26-Oct 1637

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like to know why Brujon is so _very_ excited about his new doublet, please check [this work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24306673), bearing in mind the content warnings first.

“There,” she says. “What do you think?”

He’s speechless. Breathless.

“Breathe,” she says, jovially. Then, concern oozing through her tone: “Er, you _can_ breathe in there, can’t you…?!”

She reaches towards the fastenings and he holds a hand up, smiling… yes, this is a smile… smiling at himself, at her, in the mirror.

She folds a small smirk. “You like it?”

“Yes, Madame.” He is. He can’t. He’s never going to be able to tell her what it feels like, thank her properly for this gift. A gift of a vision of himself true.

She ruffles his hair fondly then immediately starts brushing it back into place until he looks at her, still via the mirror, and she withdraws again.

“Look at you.” She nods. “Made a new man of you.”

He feels (and sees) his eyebrows crease oddly, pulls it all back in so all that’s left is the slightly baffled smirk of gratitude. Before he can think better of it, he turns and hugs her, head down, snuffling “Thank you, Madame,” and thinks that might have to do as he lets her go and she laughs gladly.

“Never _known_ such a reaction to any garment I’ve made.” She looks a little flushed herself, and very gratified. “Either I’m getting better or you’re easily pleased.” He grins for her teasing, ducks his head. She clouts him gently on the shoulder, smirking. “Right, stretch for me?”

She has him swinging his arms in various directions, twisting his torso, bending and lunging, observing critically, and asking a constant stream of questions.

“Good,” she eventually pronounces. “Don’t know how much more growing you’ve got in you, but that’ll do you a fair while. You happy with how to do those… ties by yourself?”

Those… ties. The ones inside.

“They seem simple enough, Madame.” He’s beaming still, can’t help it – feels seven feet tall.

“Well, let me know if you need anything changed – within reason, of course!”

“Um, my, er. Hm. My parents were both pretty tall. I think– I think I’ve, um, that I’ll be more, um–”

She nods and he subsides. “Well, maybe I was wrong about you filling out, at that, though your shoulders are getting so _broad!_ ” She pats him there, and he feels a flush of pride travelling up him. “A lot of hard work in those,” she tells him with an approving nod, and he remembers pushing longer, further, harder than the other lads, Fabron side-eyeing him occasionally, feels himself unfurling into light, bright and… _broad_.

 _It’s a good day_ , he thinks, as he heads upstairs.

Which, as it turns out, takes mere minutes to demolish.

*

Constance won’t deny that she’s feeling particularly pleased with herself as she walks into the kitchen. Serge, sleeves rolled, is thumping dough into itself with what looks like vengeance bordering on spite.

She leans one hip against the tabletop. “More bread?”

He just grunts.

After a while, she says: “You do know that it’s possible to knead it _too_ much…?”

“Fuxxake,” he mutters, punches the dough again, but it’s half-hearted, and he shambles away to fetch a bread tin as she allows herself to frown her concern at his back.

“What’s got you all _cheerful_ , then?” he grumbles on his return, still not looking her way. “Another letter from the Front, is it?”

 _Well, that would have been nice, considering the date_ , she thinks before she can prevent it. She heaves a short sigh, feeling her smile slipping and hitching it a little higher. “No, but all the doublets have been delivered, and now they look like a proper regiment.”

“Now they looks like proper lambs to the slaughter, you mean. All tidy.” He sniffs, wipes his forehead on his sleeve, and heaves the possibly overworked dough into a waiting bowl and covers it with a wet cloth, taking it to his proofing cupboard and removing one that’s been rising happily, dumping it into its tin and scoring it with a deep resentment in every line.

“What the hell,” she says, “is your problem, huh?”

“Nuffin.”

“Don’t you ‘nuffin’ me – what’s crawled up _your_ arse?” Somewhere, locked in her cupboard, Nice Constance cringes and tuts like the ladies of the court.

He gives her a poisonous look, hauls the tin to the oven and shuts it with a clang, stomping back to his table, dusting his hands off, then standing with them on his hips. 

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him like this. Throwing things and cursing, yes. Insulting everyone within earshot, yes. This mutinous silence is new and unnerving.

When it’s clear she’s not going to be cowed into retreating, he scowls deeper, moves to a chair and sits with a thump.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Nah, fuck it.” He waves an open palm.

She takes the chair opposite his. “What’s up?” Maybe softness will do the trick.

“Don’t you fuckin’ try that, Madame. I ain’t no wet lad nor no ’urt officer neither.” He stops, stares at his hands. “I ain’t no officer,” he repeats, softly.

She frowns, ducks her head a little, but he won’t look up.

“Just a Musketeer,” he continues, “tha’s all I ever was. Good in a ruck, good at waitin’ – fuck me, I’d stand watch for _hours_ ; freezin’ cold, boilin’ ’ot, rain pouring down, didn’ make no difference to me.” He blows out a long puff of breath. “My knees got summin to say about that these days, tha’s for damn’ sure. But yeah: decent enough guard, still sneaky enough to give these younguns a run for their money if we was to spar, but…” he tails off.

“‘But…’?” she asks softly.

Another puff. “I’m older’n Tréville, for a start. Lucky to retire, ’stead o’…” he heaves a breath, “dyin’ on the job, but then… Then _you_ said…”

“Then I said you were still a Musketeer, essentially.”

He sniffs, nods.

“Ah. Sorry.”

“Nah, ’snot that, is it?” He looks up, finally. She resists the urge to clasp his hands. He sighs. “We went to defend Pinon, that time.” She frowns at him. “Oh, yeah, you wouldn’ know abou’ tha’. Coupla years ago now, innit. Huh. Anyway, you know ’ow Athos ain’t a comte no more, yeah?”

She nods.

“Well, leaving enough of the place standing and enough people to own it was… Hah!” The caw of laughter startles her a little. “Just fink: a whole comté being run by them as works it. They got any sense, they’ll keep that quiet long as they can.”

“Why?”

“Werrrll,” and she can’t help but have a small quirk of lip at this very familiar start to any exposition of his, “think about it, righ’? Either they’ll be flooded wi’ folk wanna live in what they reckon’s a kinda paradise, or they’ll ’ave every ’ungry lordling in a… fifty-mile span reckon ’e’s got a chance of a free bit o’ land complete wi’ serfs, yeah?”

She shrugs. “It’s close enough to the Front that people won’t be bothering them for a while yet, and they’ve managed so far…” She frowns back at him. “We’d’ve heard, surely.”

He makes a shrug of a face. “Yeah, maybe. Anyway.” She waits. He sniffs. “But yeah. We went and did that. Course, thought we was jus’ rescuin’ ’imself, but anyway. Come back – I was fuckin’ _knackered_. For _days_ , like. Other nigh’ – ’eadin’ to the Palace, back o’ my head was the thought _you_ might well end up being the one protecting _me_ and all.” He waves a hand as she stiffens. “Nah, nah, nah: not like that. I don’t care that a woman’s protectin’ me. Could be anyone, though if were one o’ the littler lads I’d ’ave pause on that, but… the fac’ that it’s _anyone_ , right?” He stares at her, all sorts of emotions bubbling through the weathered mass of wrinkles. “And I’m finking: I gotta see Tréville scared. _Scared_. _Tréville._ Someone took him down and he stood no fuckin’ chance, by the sound of it. Stupid fuckin’ cunt, wherever ’e was – ’e can’t do _that_ no more. They wasn’ after robbin’ ’im, was they?” He sniffs expressively. “This was coz ’e’s who ’e is. Fack,” he concludes, looking down again.

“So this is why you’re beating the crap out of some blameless dough?” he looks up and she raises her eyebrows. “Because–”

“Because I’m _scared_ , Madame. And thassa truf. This is beyond me. This is… _your_ world – _court_ world. And me: I’m just an ol’ solja. What can _I_ give ’em?”

Her mouth quirks, something like conciliatory, but she thinks he’ll see the sadness there as well. She finally reaches out to take his hand, and feels both of his curve gently against her fingers. “Good bread? A warm, safe place? And,” she says, with a small squeeze, “dirty tricks for fighting your way out of a corner?”

“Hah! I only give _those_ to them as got the wits t’ask…”

“As it should be,” she approves.

“Speakin’ o’ which…” he drawls, and she can see him starting to come back a bit to himself.

She nods, her expression more _fond amusement_ now. “Whenever you like, old man.”

“Oi. I can still show you what’s what…”

“Never let d’Artagnan know, but I reckon you’re right.”

“Yeah, nor the Captain, neiver,” he says, and she’s too surprised to mask her expression entirely while he winks and gathers his hands back to himself, bracing on the edge of the table. “Werrrll… Lunch ain’t gonna serve itself. Best round up that good-for-nuffin lad o’ mine,” he says, words coming strained as he stands, sniffs, quirks an eyebrow at her and shuffles into the depths of his domain.

When it turns out that his apprentice is nowhere to be found, they go searching for his whereabouts together.

Which, it turns out, is with everyone else, watching the demolition in the courtyard.

*

“The _truly_ annoying thing,” de la Croix is saying, casually sauntering in circles as he, crouching, watches him, blinking sweat away, not daring to lift his arm to wipe his forehead, not right now, “is that _you_ think wearing a _doublet_ makes you a _swordsman_. And no matter how _plucky_ ,” and he’s right there, suddenly, so that Brujon barely manages to block his blows, feeling the third ring through his arm all the way to his shoulder, “and _hard-working_ you are,” and how can _that_ , how _can it_ be an insult in that curling mouth as its owner wanders away again? “it’s about skill, and talent, and _years_ of training with the best.”

“And you’ve had the best, have you?” he manages, ignoring the furious muttering and scuffling sounds to his right, breath coming hard, feeling furiously overheated. “Oi! Petit Chevalier! I _said–!_ ”

De la Croix is right in his face now, pushing hard, fast, driving him back. “I _am_ the best, you guttersnipe. Better than all the rest of you little boys, playing at it. It’s in my _blood_ , you… _peasant!_ ” and he’s _trying_ to push back, he _is_ , but the promise of his _broad shoulders_ , the strength he’s worked so hard for, everything hauled and pinned together by Madame’s gift is… it’s just a dream. It’s–

“ _Fuck!_ ”

De la Croix breaks off with a sneer and saunters away again, circling inside the thickening ring of cadets and other onlookers who’ve wandered in. He feels himself hunched and pale and… and _weak_. Weak like a–

“Face it, Brujon. You fight like a _girl_ ,” he chortles. Not a snarl, a curse, a punch thrown at him, just this _joke_ , this–

A scraping sound behind him, slow, continuous, and deliberate, has everyone muttering, shuffling, and peering. He sees de la Croix frowning past his shoulder, and decides: fuck everyone else; he’s been told, time and again – do _not_ take your eye off your opponent. And just as he’s deciding what to do with said opponent’s distraction, he hears the scrape reach him as the mutters rise, and a voice declaring: “If you think ‘girl’ is an insult, that must mean you think yourself better than any female, so here’s your chance to prove it.”

He risks a look to his right. Madame is standing, a practice sword held by her side, tip against the ground, a little courtyard muck clinging to it from where it’s caught everyone’s attention. Her eyes still on de la Croix, she gives the tiniest of nods, and he feels the tiniest of smiles creep up one side of his mouth in answer.

“I will _not_ fight a _woman!_ ” De la Croix is astounded. Appalled. Wait… he’s _offended_.

“That’s a shame,” returns Madame, “because out there,” and she gestures so casually to the gates with her sword that it’s merely an extension of her gloved hand, “are women who will not have the slightest qualms about fighting _you_. And with any weapon to hand, I might add.” She brings the sword up to clean it with a cloth from her pocket. “Your duties as a Musketeer, should you ever find a commission,” he opens his mouth indignantly and she rides right over him: “will include some of the wildest parts of Paris and beyond, and _believe me_ , cadet, the moment you stop to check the sex of your opponent is a moment you _give_ to your opponent, and what does _that_ do?” she gestures with the rag and they chorus back:

“ _Gives them an advantage!_ ”

“And what does _that_ do?”

“ _Hands them a weapon!_ ” his mouth moves without thought, his voice blends with the rest, and he watches de la Croix’s face darken, even as his own, sullen mouth moves, stiffly, with them.

“And why would you do _that?_ ”

De la Croix just stares at her. She cocks her head to one side and waits, rag going into her pocket. After what seems like a long, breathless while, she takes a long breath and asks: “So, are you going to fight me like a Musketeer, or concede defeat like a noble?”

He just about manages to turn his own chuckle into a cough, and busies himself with sheathing his own practice sword. Luckily, there are plenty of people around more than willing to openly snigger as the Petit Chevalier’s face goes white with shock, then red with a kind of enraged embarrassment.

A certain disquiet has him look over as Madame lets out the smallest sound, and it reminds him of… he shakes his head, and afterwards will try to explain to Clairmont (after his friend has explained earnestly that Charbonneau and Dupont were literally holding him back earlier, and he’s told him there’s no need for apologies, no, _seriously_ ) that she’d sounded… _satisfied_ , but Clairmont is too busy dancing foot-to-foot saying _did you see, did you_ see?! _She kicked his_ arse!

 _Of course I saw it_ , he’ll tell him. _I was_ right _there._

 _Did_ you _know she could do that?_

He’ll shake his head, still somewhat troubled that Madame would take satisfaction from goading a cadet, even one as fucking annoying as de la Croix.

Later still, the sight of de la Croix kneeling in the dust, shocked and humiliated, fresh in everyone’s mind, rumours flying around the garrison and then every street of Paris, it all makes a great deal more sense, but this new knowing of her never quite leaves him.

*

Constance gazes at the cadet as calmly as she feels capable. She watches, sees the moment he decides to engage her, feels her resources gather, several voices coalescing.

Athos cautions her against leading with her anger, reminding her that she should be using _his_ against him. _He will be sloppy – not only have you pushed him, not only has he already been fighting while you’re fresh, but he’s expecting you to be less skilled than him. He may be right;_ assess _him._

Fabron, who is currently enjoying his day off in a different quartier, tells her that de la Croix has a longer reach than her, and much longer experience, but that he’s never fought _her_. He reminds her: _stillness can speak more strongly than speed. Watch first._

Quite to her surprise, Aramis’s voice comes next, telling her that compassion is important: he’s her charge, after all. _Not for long_ , she tells him, feels the viciousness clench in her throat and face briefly, sees de la Croix see it, the moment of uncertainty cross him, feels nothing but satisfaction.

She shrugs off her surcoat and hands it to Brujon, who takes it silently, backing off a little.

Porthos says: _Let her fuckin’ deck him_ , almost pleading, and she feels them, disapproving, still laugh. _Seriously: ’ave it, Constance._

D’Artagnan simply puts his hand on her shoulder and nods, eyebrows aslant, along with that famous tilted smile. _You’re sure._ And it’s not a question.

Ninon de Larroque tells her: _Show him who you are. Show them all._

She nods. De la Croix nods. They approach, bow shallowly, salute each other and touch blades.

Then the circling begins.

She wonders, afterwards, how to put it in a letter to them when all she can remember is that, at the time, she felt an almost contemptuous clarity, even as her blood thundered in her throat, and her breath came heavy, though far less so than even six months ago, but that the tests, the appels, the blocks, the swings and jabs, the thrust, rush, and counter-rush, are all a blur of hard-earned reflex and the sheer joy of finding her muscles equal to this, her footing secure, of hearing the gasps of those gathered, of how de la Croix’s breath squeaks and saws in his throat towards the end. Of how the fear powers but does not steer her decisions.

And then the moment when it’s her own voice telling her: _Now, now_ , him dropping his sword, stung, head bowed, the silence that had never actually been erupting into a clamour of cheers and hoots and catcalls in her ringing ears.

She feels more than sees the circle that has contracted around them, full of exuberant, exultant cadets, punching each other lightly, jumping and, in Charbonneau’s case, skipping. The circle does not touch them, though. No hands come through to either comfort de la Croix or add to his humiliation. None clapped on her own shoulder or back in congratulation.

She lowers her sword, leans in close, turning the weapon so that the handle is towards him. “Cadet,” she says quietly, neutrally, “please take this and your own practice sword to the armoury and see them properly stowed away.” He nods, head down, flushed and silent. She beckons to Brujon, who steps in quickly, handing her her surcoat, likewise silently. Then, to her amazement, he offers his hand to de la Croix, who, utterly confounded, shakes it. She watches him blink out of his daze somewhat, then offers her own hand. She thinks for a moment, as the muscles work in his jaw, that he will refuse, but maybe some kind of reflex takes over, because he briefly seizes it, then releases it, the leather transmitting little warmth between them.

He looks up then, finally, mouth opening, and she wonders, afterwards, what he might have said had Serge not rung the bell for lunch, shouting hoarsely that _anyone not sat in the mess in the next five minutes is going without_. It is, as ever, as effective a way of dispersing boys as you could devise.

That Serge is, later, the only one to tell her outright _Well done_ is something she suspects is lost on neither of them.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece has been a long time in the writing, flagged in my head for a long time (summarised in my spreadsheet as _"You fight like a girl!" ➡ Musketeer Garrison ➡ De la Croix taunts Brujon, gets a faceful of Constance in return._ ), and also underwent a fair few revisions (the addition of the conversation with Serge, which I wasn’t expecting, a touch of judgement on Constance putting down someone who is her charge so brutally and publicly). I owe a small debt of thanks to the discord server in general for saying "Go for it!" and [Maximilinus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maximilinus/pseuds/Maximilinus) in particular for giving me their gut-level response ( _Let her fucking deck him_ ) which I used (with permission) for Imaginary Porthos because it’s _perfect_.
> 
> If you’re wondering why the date is significant for Constance, it’s the day after my headcanon wedding anniversary for her and d’Artagnan.
> 
> The next piece coming up is meaty as hell, and is not yet finished (I have officially run out of buffer). I may be a week late in posting, and the chapters will turn up on different days, but it’s coming, and there’s no dodging the judgement for anyone concerned…


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